WASHINGTON, C.D., CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA, 1 SEPTEMBER 1950, 0500 HOURS.

In the early morning hours of 1 September 1950, Richard Brevard Russell, sixteenth President of the Confederate States of America, was awakened from his slumber by his Chief of Staff, Henry Fitzhugh. Fitzhugh, a tall, gaunt man of 41 years, with graying brown hair, large blue eyes, and a handle-bar mustache which looked like it belonged on a character in a Western movie, looked even more nervous and excited than he normally did.

"Mr. President," he said quickly, "I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but something has happened."

President Russell sat up in the bed and rubbed his eyes. After yawning widely, he looked at Fitzhugh, his left eyebrow cocked with curiosity.

"What do you mean, something has happened?," he asked irritably. "Dammit, Fitzhugh, don't talk in riddles. Especially at 5:00 in the morning!"

"I, I, beg your pardon, Mr. President," Fitzhugh stammered. "I say something because I am not sure what has happened. I, myself, was awakened by one of the security guards, who told me there had been a flash of white light outside which had lit up the entire sky at about 3 a.m. Since then, we have been getting calls from various State Governors along the border with the United States, reporting that the flash of white light was seen all along the border. Furthermore, they say that in many places the roads no longer...line up...with the corresponding roads on the Yankee side of the border, or there simply aren't any corresponding roads at those locations, and there have been quite a number of horrible accidents as a result. Fortunately, there are not many people on the road at 3:00 in the morning, or there would likely have been many more. Several trains also have been derailed because the tracks on the Yankee side no longer connect to those on ours. At other places, Yankees trying to cross the border at about the time the flash of light occurred have rear-ended other cars waiting to pass the border checkpoints. When questioned, these people claimed ignorance of the Confederacy's existence...some of them even said we LOST the War of Secession, if you can believe that. Many of the Governors also reported that they are receiving signals from radio and television stations which did not exist yesterday, including broadcasts from a network called CBS which is based in New York."

"But CBS is the Confederate Broadcasting System," Russell said incredulously. "It doesn't have an office in New York."

Fitzhugh nodded. "I know, Mr. President. But the Columbia Broadcasting System does."

"Columbia Broadcasting System?," Russell repeated. "But there is no such thing! The networks based in New York are Republic Broadcasting and U.S. Communications."

"Evidently, not any more, Mr. President," Fitzhugh said patiently.

Russell got out of bed, and put on his robe over his pajamas. Slipping on his furry slippers, he said, "All, right, Fitzhugh. I've heard enough. Have coffee sent to the Oval Office. I think I've got a long day ahead of me."  

WASHINGTON, C.D., CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA, 1 SEPTEMBER 1950, 0600 HOURS

In the Oval Office of the Confederate White House in Washington, C.D., President Russell sat, enthralled, watching a news broadcast from a television station called WPTZ which was based in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The Confederacy maintained booster stations on the Confederate/U.S. border which caught the signals of the Yankee television stations near the border, amplified them, and then broadcast them on a license agreement into the Confederacy. One of these stations had picked up the signal from WPTZ, and despite having no such agreement with that station, was broadcasting it, allowing President Russell to receive the broadcast in Washington. On the screen, a man named Douglas Edwards sat behind a paper strewn desk, reporting on the confusion which had befallen the Confederacy’s neighbor to the north. Behind him was a large map of the world.

"At about three o’clock this morning, a bright light was seen which filled the sky from coast to coast. Shortly thereafter, CBS news has learned, military bases across the United States lost contact with the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. CBS has also learned that all telephone connections to points south of the Ohio River have been cut, and attempts by CBS to contact our reporters in Washington, DC, have been unsuccessful."

Edwards looked off to one side, and someone handed him another paper. He continued.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I understand that we have a report from correspondent Edward R. Murrow. We will switch to him now."

Edward R. Murrow, clad in a trench coat, was standing alongside a highway. Cars were backed up, some of them honking their horns. He began speaking. Despite his reputation for bravery and devotion to getting the news out even at the height of the London Blitz a few years before, Murrow seemed quite shaken.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, something beyond the realm of imagining has occurred, here on the border between Pennsylvania and Maryland. And, I am told, the same thing has happened along the borders of many other States as well."

He fell silent, then shook his head. "Brad," he said, looking off camera, "Why don’t we let the camera do the talking."

The camera panned away from Murrow, to the right, to a large sign standing beside the road. The sign in large, white letters, said, "Now entering Maryland. Welcome to the C.S.A." The camera panned a little farther to the right, and caught sight of a check point. The gate of the checkpoint was down, which explained the traffic jam. That, in and of itself, was not so unusual…many toll roads had such installations on them. But this one was manned by armed guards in gray, police-type uniforms with helmets which looked like those worn by London "Bobbies," and over it flew a flag similar to the Confederate Second National Flag, or Stainless Banner…but with sixteen stars.

The camera remained fixed on the flag for a few moments, then panned back to Murrow.

"There you have it, Ladies and Gentlemen. Through means which are, at present, unknown, the Confederate States of America…an entity which was destroyed by the might of Union arms in 1865...now exists in our world. And apparently everything which, up until 3:00 this morning, existed in the territory occupied by these Confederate States, is gone. Vanished without a trace. I can’t go on…back to you, Douglas."

Douglas Edwards returned to the screen. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I don’t know what to say. Mr. Murrow’s report is quite shocking. But it is confirmed by other reports which are coming in. Apparently broadcast signals are being received in border communities originating from the ‘Confederate Broadcasting System’ and ‘Dixie Broadcasting Company’. And there are reports that motorists elsewhere are encountering border checkpoints of the Confederate States of America when they attempt to cross into the States of Louisiana, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Kentucky, Virginia and Maryland. So now, at least, we are beginning to get a picture of the geographical extent of this alien Confederacy."

President Russell watched this with increasing alarm and disbelief. How could this have happened? Could this be real, or was it all part of some elaborate trick? Were the Yankees up to something?

Henry Fitzhugh, who was watching with him, suddenly gasped. "Mr. President…look at the map behind Mr. Edwards. Look closely."

"What are you babbling about, Fitzhugh," Russell said, irritated. But then he looked. And he saw what Fitzhugh was talking about. The borders of the countries on the map were…wrong. Very wrong.

"Fitzhugh, get the U.S. Ambassador in here, immediately!," Russell said.

Fitzhugh rose from his seat, and rushed out of the room. About ten minutes later, the United States Ambassador to the Confederate States of America walked into the Oval Office. Russell looked at him. The ambassador was a man of medium height, standing five foot, nine inches tall. He had steel gray hair, and wore round-rimmed glasses perched on his long, thin nose. His face was ruggedly handsome, with the weathered look that spoke of an early life spent at hard work in the sun. Speaking in a high voice with a slight Missouri twang, the Ambassador said, "Good Morning, Mr. President."

President Russell stood up and offered his hand, and the Ambassador took it. "Thank you for coming on such short notice, Ambassador," he said.

"Given what has happened, I can certainly understand!," the ambassador replied. "I was goddamn well floored when I first heard of it."

Russell smiled. The U.S. Ambassador came from a humble background, and sometimes his speech…especially when he became excited or angered…was sprinkled with colorful phrases which were better left out of polite company. But, that was one of the reasons why Russell liked him so much. It was almost like talking to the folks back home in Georgia.

"What do you make of it?," Russell asked. "Do you have any idea how this happened?"

"I have no idea how any of this happened," the ambassador said. "The shi…excuse me…manure’s hit the fan, and that’s for sure."

"Well, I think the best thing is to try to make contact with the United States again," Russell said. "Since the telephone lines are down, may I impose upon you to personally take a message to the Federal Government in Philadelphia?"

"Mr. President," the ambassador said, "If the reports I have heard are accurate, the people in the United States believe that the Confederacy lost the War of Secession. If that is the case, then the Federal Government won’t be in Philadelphia. It will have been in Washington, D.C."

Russell considered that for a moment. "That might present a problem, then," he said finally. "If the Federal Government was here in Washington, then who is governing the United States right now?"

The ambassador shook his head. "Nobody, Mr. President," he said. "The State governments are all intact, of course. But the Federal Government…Congress, the President, whoever the poor sap was, and most of the Federal bureaucracy…are all gone. Everybody up there’s going to be running around like a blind dog in a meathouse. It’s going to be a hell of a mess."

"Perhaps if we make a joint broadcast into the USA…we’ve got all those booster stations on the border, we can certainly do it…we can at least let them know what has happened and that relations between our two nations are good," President Russell said. "And of course, the Confederacy will offer whatever humanitarian aid it can to assist the USA through the present crisis."

"I’ll be glad to help with that, Mr. President," the ambassador said.

"Wonderful!," President Russell replied. He stood shook the ambassador’s hand once again.

"Thank you, Ambassador Truman."

NEW YORK, NEW YORK, 1 SEPTEMBER 1950, 0800 HOURS

Dwight David Eisenhower, former General of the Army of the United States, now retired, awoke on the morning of September 1, 1950 to find the world turned upside down...or at least, so it appeared to him. Now President of Columbia University in New York, he had risen at his usual time, gone downstairs to have breakfast, and picked up his NEW YORK TIMES which his maid had left for him on the dining room table, as she did every morning. It was, to all appearances, a thoroughly ordinary morning.

When he opened his newspaper, however, he found that what it contained was anything but ordinary. A huge headline screamed,

Russell grimaced at this. Like virtually everyone in the Confederacy, he viewed Abraham Lincoln as a tyrant who unjustly attempted to deny the people of the South their right of self-government.

We are now a mere five years after a world war has been won. Yet, when men’s hearts should anticipate a long peace, and men’s minds should be free from the heavy weight that comes with war, we find ourselves in a 'Cold War' with the forces of atheistic Communism. All the world is split into two vast and increasingly hostile armed camps, both of whom are fully committed to a great armaments race.

Today we can almost physically hear the mutterings and rumblings of an invigorated god of war. You can see it, feel it, and hear it all the way from the Indochina hills, from the shores of Formosa, in the mountains of Korea, right over into the very heart of Europe itself. And now, it appears, his foot treads even here upon our very continent of North America itself.

The traitorous entity which called itself the Confederate States of America was a blight upon the face of America which President Lincoln righteously destroyed, over eighty-five years ago. Now, that blight, that nest of traitors to the great ideals which America represents, has been resurrected. Even now, even as they profess their friendship toward the people of the United States, their armies and air forces are massing on the borders of our peaceful land.

And just today, the Godless Communists have recognized the Confederate States of America. We all know that Joe Stalin doesn't do anything unless he is sure it will advance the agenda of World Communism. What does that tell us about our unwanted neighbors to the South?

This leads myself, along with many other concerned citizens, to ask some hard questions.

And McKellar was known for having a quick and sometimes violent temper. In one notorious case, Warren Duffee, Senate correspondent for United Press, greeted McKellar one morning in a hallway by saying, "How are you today, Senator?" In reply McKellar raised his cane and gave Duffee a mighty whack across the shoulder, figuring the greeting to be an impertinent comment on his advanced age.

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS, 11 SEPTEMBER 1950

In his private office at the Kremlin, Josef Vissarionovich Stalin, absolute ruler of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, sat behind his large, heavy wooden desk, frowning. Across from him, in two of the ornately carved and opulently upholstered Tsarist chairs which furnished most of the rooms of the Kremlin, sat his Foreign Minister, Vyacheslav Molotov, and the Director of the Commissariat for Internal Affairs, Lavrentiy Beria. Molotov had just relayed the bad news from North America to Stalin, and Stalin, understandably, was not pleased.

"So," Stalin said, pausing to relight his pipe, "the Americans and the Confederates have come to terms. The Confederates are about to join the capitalist alliance against socialism and have promised to send fighting men to assist in the subjugation of our socialist allies in North Korea." He took a pull from the pipe, then blew out a large smoke ring. Fire suddenly came into his eyes, and he slammed his fist down on the desk top. "That is not acceptable!"

"Comrade Stalin," Molotov began.

Stalin aimed a withering look at Molotov. "Don't you even start," he hissed. "You told me that recognizing the Confederates would drive a wedge between them and the Americans."

Molotov, seeing this look on Stalin's face, was terrified. He'd seen it all too many times...just before some important party member suddenly disappeared and never was seen again. He stammered, "It...it should have worked, Josef Vissarionovich. Remember, even you thought it was a good plan."

Beria, for his part, remained silent. He certainly did not want Stalin's ire deflected onto himself.

Stalin was not mollified. He leaned forward. "Look at what has happened!," he shouted. "Instead of driving them apart, you've driven them together! Unacceptable!"

Molotov sighed, and then shrugged. If Stalin was going to liquidate him, so be it. "Josef Vissarionovich, it was a gamble. We both knew it was a gamble at the time it was suggested, and as sometimes happens in any game of chance, we lost this round. But the game is not over." Molotov looked over at Beria. "Indeed, that is why I asked Lavrentiy Pavlovich to accompany me here. I believe he has some ideas for our next round of play."

Stalin's temper subsided, and he sat back in his chair. Yes, he thought to himself, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich is correct. The game is not over. He looked at Beria.

"So, Lavrentiy Pavlovich," Stalin said, "What do you have to tell me?"

Beria nodded. "Yes, Comrade Stalin," he said. "I do have some ideas which may prove of use in this situation. It may still be possible to pry apart the two American nations." He picked up a leather attache case which was sitting on the floor next to his chair. Snapping open the leather buckles which held it shut, he opened the case, and took out a document, bound in a black card-stock cover. He looked down at it briefly, then handed it to Stalin.

"What is this?," Stalin asked.

"A list of proposed special operations in the Confederate States and the United States," Beria said, "the result of the feasibility study we agreed upon at our meeting of a week ago."

"Ah," Stalin said, "I had almost forgotten about that." He opened the report and began perusing it.

"If I may, Comrade Stalin," Beria said, "allow me to direct your attention to the sixth of the proposals which are outlined in the report. Although it is the most ambitious of the proposals, and carries the most risk, it also promises to provide the greatest return for our investment of resources."

Stalin skipped down to the sixth proposal. As he read, his eyes grew wide with amazement. He looked up at Beria. "Do you really think we can do this and get away with it undiscovered?," he asked.

Beria, as he was wont to do when he needed time to think about his answer, took off his spectacles and plucked a handkerchief from the pocket of the tunic of his dark green-gray NKVD uniform. He began to wipe the lenses. Then, after a moment, he put away the handkerchief, and put the glasses back on before speaking.

"Yes, Comrade Stalin," he said. "As I said, the proposal in question carries the most risk. I cannot guarantee that our involvement would not be discovered. But it is my belief that it can be done, and that our role in the affair can be hidden."

Stalin took a long pull from his pipe, and slowly exhaled the smoke, deep in thought. The NKVD had never attempted an operation of this magnitude. If it failed, and Soviet involvement was discovered...that was something Stalin did not want to contemplate. Wars had been fought over lesser causes. Still, if it succeeded...

Molotov looked from Stalin, to Beria, and back to Stalin. He, himself, had not seen Beria's proposals, and Beria had shown no inclination to share the information with him. He was plainly quite nervous that he was not being included in the discussion. Stalin saw this and smiled, slightly. Let Molotov squirm for a bit, he thought to himself. He deserves no less for his failure.

Stalin handed the report back to Beria. "We shall do as you suggest, Lavrentiy Pavlovich," he said finally. "See to it immediately." He looked at Molotov. "As for you," he said, "what do you suggest as our next move on the diplomatic front?"

"I have no specific suggestions at the present time," Molotov said, shaking his head. "Our original plan still has the potential to reap some benefit. There are doubtless many people within the United States and the Confederate States...that despicable Senator McCarthy, for example, and others in both countries...whose support for the new state of affairs is lukewarm at best. Those embers could still be fanned into a flame."

"I will expect your proposals for so doing by tomorrow morning," Stalin said in a voice not without a hint of menace. Molotov nodded quickly.

"Yes, Comrade Stalin!," he said, a bit too loudly. "It will be done!"

Stalin knew when to frighten his subordinates. He also knew when to be magnanimous. He stood up. "I know it will, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich," he said with a broad smile. "You are, as I have said before, a devious man, and I know you will not fail me." He stepped out from behind his desk. "Now, how about some dinner, and then we shall see a film. I wonder what Comrade Bolshakov will show us today?" Molotov smiled, glad that Stalin's ire had finally turned from him. Together, they left the office.

WASHINGTON, C.D., CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA, 16 SEPTEMBER 1950

On the evening of September 16, President Richard Russell sat watching television in the Presidential Study of the Confederate White House in Washington, C.D. He was watching the Confederate Broadcasting System's nightly news program, "News of the Day with Carver Andrews." Andrews, a handsome, 41-year-old Mississippian, had been a well-known radio news broadcaster for CBS before switching to television news in 1948. Now, as the news presenter for the most widely watched television broadcasting network in the Confederacy, his was one of the most well-known faces in the country.[1] President Russell listened as Andrews recounted the day's events in his rich, melodious Mississippi drawl.

"In Korea," Andrews was saying, "the United Nations forces led by U.S. General Douglas MacArthur made a successful amphibious landing yesterday, at a place called Inchon. Early reports indicate the landing was a complete success, and that the North Korean invaders are in full retreat."

"Good," Russell said softy to himself. If the Yankees and their allies can clean up the Korean mess before our men get there, so much the better, he thought to himself. He didn't like the idea of sending Confederate boys to die in a godforsaken place on the other side of the world, and if it ended up he didn't have to, that was fine with him.

"In related news," Andrews continued, "preparation for the embarkation of the Confederate Expeditionary Force to Korea, in fulfillment of the agreement between the governments of the Confederate States and the United States concluded several days ago, is well underway. General George Smith Patton [2] has been appointed overall commander of the force."

Russell nodded. He knew General Patton well, and knew he would make an excellent commander for the Confederate Expeditionary Force. He had served with distinction, rising to the rank of Major General, in the War of Austrian Devolution in the 1920s. He had shown himself then to be an innovative and charismatic leader. Russell was sure that, although Patton was over 60 years of age now, he would prove an outstanding leader in the Korean conflict.

"In New York," Andrews continued, "the application of the Confederate States to join the United Nations was vetoed by the representative of France. France and the Netherlands continue to press their claims for the return of their former territories in South America which now comprise the Confederate State of Guyana. Our government has, of course, rejected those claims."

Russell frowned, shaking his head. He couldn't understand why a second-rate power like France would be granted a veto power in a major international body like the United Nations. After all, based on everything he'd learned, Russell was under the impression that the Germans had pretty much walked over France in less than six weeks during the recent World War, here in this world. Just one of many things I still don't understand about this world, Russell thought to himself. But there was no way the Confederacy was going to turn over those territories. The frogs can kiss my ass, Russell thought.

As he was mentally cursing the French, the door of the study suddenly burst open and a very agitated Henry Fitzhugh rushed into the room.

"Fitzhugh!," Russell exclaimed, standing up and turning to face the intruder. "What the blazes is going on?"

"My God, Dick," he said, "They've just tried to blow up the Capitol Building!"

Russell knew that Fitzhugh must be EXTREMELY agitated if he would call him "Dick." Fitzhugh was usually very formal when addressing his President, even if they were long-time friends.

"Calm down, Henry," Russell said, stepping forward and placing his hands on the shoulders of his Chief of Staff. "Take a deep breath, and tell me what's happened. Who tried to blow up the Capitol Building?"

Fitzhugh took a deep, long breath, then slowly exhaled. Then he spoke, much more calmly.

"Mr. President," Fitzhugh said, "somebody parked a truck full of explosives...it looks like a home-made bomb cooked up from fertilizer and diesel fuel...on the street outside the chambers of the House of Representatives. Fortunately, somebody called the police and informed them of the plan to blow up the Capitol Building, or they might have gotten away with their nefarious scheme. The army bomb disposal units were called in and the bomb was disarmed. The detonators were U.S. Army issue, and there were documents inside the cab of the truck which indicated the bomb was the work of someone affiliated with that maniac, Senator McCarthy."

"You're sure about that?," Russell asked, stunned.

"Ye...Yes, Sir," Fitzhugh stammered. "Sir, if that bomb had gone off, it would have taken out most of the Capitol Building and a lot of the surrounding area." Tears ran down his face.

"Here," Russell said, "sit down, Henry," gently guiding him over to his own, comfortable chair. Then he picked up the telephone from the small table which sat next to the chair. He punched in several numbers, and a voice came on the line.

"Hampton, here," Russell heard the voice say. Wade Hampton VI [3] was the director of the Confederate Intelligence Bureau, the Confederacy's intelligence and security agency.

"Wade," he said, "This is Dick Russell. I assume you've heard what's just happened at the Capitol."

"Yes, Sir," Hampton said.

"I want you to get to the bottom of this," Russell said. "If the Yankees were behind this, or if that bastard McCarthy had anything to do with it, I need to know. Or if somebody else was behind it, I need to know that too."

"Yes, Sir," Hampton said. "I'll see to it personally."

"Thank you, Wade," Russell said. "I knew I could depend on you." He hung up the phone.

Russell turned back to Fitzhugh. "Henry, I need for you to inform the press and the broadcast networks that I will be making a statement in one hour. Tell that idiot of a police chief that he is not to make any statements to reporters about this. And under no circumstances is the evidence of possible Yankee involvement to be released to the press. Not until we are absolutely sure."

Fitzhugh rose from the chair. "Yes, Mr. President!," he said, and rushed from the room to carry out Russell's directives. Russell watched him go. I just can't believe the Yankee government is involved with this, he thought to himself. But could that bastard McCarthy or his supporters be? He knew there were still a great many people in the USA who were opposed to the recognition of the Confederacy's right to exist. Who is behind this?, he asked himself. Who?

Meanwhile, in his room at the Jefferson Davis Hotel, located a few blocks from the White House, Morris Cohen, an unassuming little man with black hair and eyes, was quietly packing his bags. Cohen, an American-born son of Russian immigrants, was a dedicated Communist who had served as an agent for the Soviet Union in the United States since the 1930s. Currently he and his wife were working as agents under the control of N.K.V.D. master spy Col. Rudolf Abel.

He smiled as he listened to the sirens of the police cars and fire trucks as they rushed past the hotel toward the Capitol Building. He had had doubts when Colonel Abel explained the plan to him. Abel had arranged for several teams of agents to enter the Confederacy. Each team was assigned a specific task:

--Team A, based in North Carolina, was charged with renting a truck, and filling the back of it with locally purchased fertilizer and diesel fuel. They were then to drive the truck into Virginia, where they would meet Team B.

--Team B had been charged with driving the truck into Washington, and parking it on the street near the Capitol Building. This team had been provided with U.S. Army detonators which had been stolen from an American supply depot in Germany, as well as carefully forged documents implicating Senator McCarthy. Cohen smiled when he thought about that. He hated Joe McCarthy with a passion he had reserved for few others, save perhaps Adolf Hitler.

By now, both of those teams were out of the country. Cohen himself had been given the task of making the telephone call...from a telephone booth, of course...reporting the bomb plot to the police. For of course, actually blowing up the Capitol Building was not the goal of Colonel Abel's plan. The goal was to have the Confederates discover the bomb, with the incriminating detonators and papers. And the plan, Cohen had to admit, had worked like a charm.

He finished loading his suitcase, picked it up, and calmly walked out of his room. He checked out at the front desk, then walked out of the front entrance and hailed a taxi cab. These Confederates are so incompetent, he thought to himself as he watched an airliner pass overhead. They haven't even thought to close the airport. He knew his travel documents...expertly produced by the NKVD...would pass muster at the security checkpoints in the airport itself. He had a Confederate passport and a plane ticket to Rome, where he would meet up with his wife. The NKVD would then spirit both of them into the Soviet Union. He smiled again as they drove past the Capitol Building on the way to the Stonewall Jackson International Airport. The police had a large area around the truck bomb cordoned off, and chaos seemingly reigned supreme. Yes, he thought to himself, it worked like a charm.

[1] "Carver Andrews" is the Confederate doppleganger of OTL actor Dana Andrews, whose real name was Carver Dana Andrews. Rather than going into acting, the ATL version of Andrews went into journalism.

[2] Note that this is NOT a doppleganger of the OTL General George S. Patton of WWII fame. The OTL George Patton was born of a union between George Smith Patton, Jr. and Ruth Wilson, daughter of California pioneer, statesman, and politician Benjamin Davis Wilson. Patton and Wilson met in California after Patton, Sr. moved there following his graduation from VMI in 1877. The ATL George Smith Patton, Sr., never went to California, entering the Confederate Army and having a long military career. He married a lady from Virginia, and the resulting George Smith Patton, Jr., who is serving as a General in the Confederate Army as of 1950, is a completely different individual who happens to share the same name.

[3] In OTL, there was no such person. Confederate Major General Wade Hampton III, of Civil War fame, did have a son, Wade Hampton IV, who was born in 1840. The OTL Wade IV apparently never married and died between 1870 and 1880, ending the direct "Wade Hampton" line. In the ATL, Wade IV lived to the age of 90, married in 1870, and had Wade V in 1875. Wade V married in 1897, and had Wade VI in 1900.

ATLANTA, GEORGIA, CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA, 17 SEPTEMBER 1950

Martin Luther King, Jr. was nervous...possibly more nervous than he'd ever been in his life. Here he was back home in Atlanta, riding on a red, double decker bus of English manufacture, on his way to visit his family. No, that's not right, he thought to himself. The people I'm going to visit aren't really my family. My family is gone, likely forever.

He looked around as the bus traveled through the city. It seems so different, he mused silently. Some buildings I recognize are still there, but others are gone and replaced by others. The Coca-Cola Building was still there, although he had been amazed to see that the large neon sign was different...the familiar, flowing Spencerian Script of the Coca Cola Logo superimposed on a Confederate Battle Flag. The seven-story Rich's Department Store building, he remembered, was one of the ones missing. A four-story building housing the offices of the ATLANTA CONFEDERATE stood there now, one of several newspapers serving the thriving city.

Young Martin Luther King still had trouble comprehending what had occurred in the early morning hours of September 1, 1950. Now 21 years of age, he had been studying at Crozer Theological Seminary in Chester, Pennsylvania, when the...whatever it was...happened. With the rest of a stunned nation, he had learned, via the television news, that the Confederate States of America had reappeared on Earth, and that the State of Georgia he knew and loved...the State of Georgia where his family lived and where he had grown up...had disappeared, along with the other States which formerly inhabited the territory now inhabited by the Confederacy.

At first he had been devastated, and indeed, had considered suicide. Then he had seen Harry Truman...not the one who was President of the United States, but the one who was Ambassador to the Confederate States...on television, and he'd realized that it was entirely possible that his own family, albeit a duplicate of them which had lived their entire lives under the Stars and Bars, might yet exist. He had determined to find out.

It had taken several days and a lot of bureaucratic red tape before he'd gotten a visa to visit the Confederate States. He had flown one of the first flights, aboard a United Air Lines Boeing 377 airliner, to the Joseph E. Johnston Aerodrome just outside Atlanta. Once there, he had gotten himself a room at the Southern Crescent Hotel on Cherokee Avenue [1], and had begun his search.

He remembered how he had trembled as he picked up the Atlanta phone directory in his room and paged through to the listings for the surname "King." He had experienced a brief surge of sadness and disappointment when he found no listing for a Martin Luther King, Sr. But then he remembered that his father had not been born with the name of Martin Luther King. That name had been adopted after the family visited Germany in 1934, when Martin Luther King, Jr., was five years of age. No, he recalled, Daddy's original name...and mine...was Michael King.

He had quickly flipped the page, and there he saw no listing for "Michael King, Sr." But there were listings for several Michael Kings, or Mike Kings. "Only one thing for it," he had thought to himself. "Gotta call them all."

And so he did. Most of them had been what were obviously white people who, while correctly polite to a caller with a distinctly negro accent...something which, in and of itself was strange to him and which he had rarely experienced in his own life... nevertheless were obviously somewhat irritated by the intrusion. But then, on the sixth listing he had called, something amazing happened. A tear ran down his face as he heard what could only be his mother's voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello?" Alberta King had said.

"Excuse me, Ma'am, but am I speaking to Alberta King?," Martin had asked.

"Why, yes! Who's calling?," Alberta had asked.

"Mama, it's me, Mar...Michael...your son," Martin had replied, correcting himself at the last moment.

He'd heard suspicion cloud his mother's voice. "You can't be Michael," she said warily. "Michael is here with me." Her voice took on a stern cast. "Look here, whoever you are. I don't cotton to practical jokes. Who's this? Is this Otis Cleaver's boy?"

"Mama," Martin had begun.

"Don't you be calling me Mama," Alberta had replied, "whoever you are."

Alberta's words had hit Martin like a right-cross from Joe Louis. But he recovered himself quickly. "You're right, Mrs. King," he'd said quickly. "I shouldn't be so familiar when we haven't actually met. I beg your forgiveness and ask you to bear with me just a few moments more. Do you remember what happened on September 1st?"

"I sure enough do!," Alberta had exclaimed. "That was the day the whole world went crazy!"

"Mrs. King, I came from the Atlanta, Georgia which disappeared on that night," Martin continued. "and was replaced by the Atlanta where you and your family now live. There was another Alberta King married to another Michael King in that Atlanta, and I am their son, Michael, Jr. Although I've changed my name and now am called Martin."

"You...you mean...," Alberta had stammered, "that you're...you're..."

"Yes, Mrs. King," Martin had said. "I am the duplicate of your son, Michael. His doppelganger, if you will."

"Doppel...doppel what?," Alberta said, confused. There was a long silence, then Alberta had spoken again. "Well," she'd said, "why are you calling us? What do you want?"

"Mrs. King," Martin had replied, "I lost my entire family on the night of September 1st. When I realized that it was possible that another King family might still exist here in the Confederate States, I had to try to find you. I know that I am not really your son, Mrs. King. But y'all are the closest thing to family I've got now. I'd be very grateful if you'd allow me to come and visit with y'all. But I don't want to impose. If you'd rather that I not contact you or your family again, I will, of course, respect your wishes."

Another long moment of silence followed. "No," Alberta King had said. "It's all right. Come on along. We can have supper together."

And so, now he found himself on board this odd-looking red bus...and sitting next to a white man in one of the front rows of seats, no less, without anyone raising the least objection...bouncing along the streets of an alien Atlanta to meet people who looked like his parents...and himself...but weren't. You could drive yourself crazy just thinking about this stuff, Martin thought to himself, shaking his head.

At last, he reached the bus stop on Boulevard Street, where he was to get off. He was shocked to see...himself...waiting there for him as he got off the bus.

"You Martin?," the young man had asked, looking him up and down. "Yeah, you must be." He extended his hand. "I'm Mike King," he said.

Martin took the hand of his doppelganger, and shook it. "Hello," he said. Then he smiled wryly. "You have no idea how strange this is."

Michael laughed. "Oh yes I do," he said. "Sure enough!"

Martin laughed too, and together they walked to the family home. It looked different from the way he remembered it...the house had an extra story that the one he lived in didn't have...but then, he supposed, such things were to be expected.

Standing on the porch was Alberta King. Martin could see that she was...well...a bit larger around the waistline than his own mother had been. But she had the same warm, loving eyes, and he had to fight back the urge to cry when he saw her.

"Ma...Mrs. King!," he had exclaimed.

"Lordy!," Alberta exclaimed. "You DO look just exactly like my boy Michael!" She recovered herself enough to say, "Come in! Come in!"

They went inside the house and sat down in the living room, Michael and Martin on the sofa and Alberta in an overstuffed chair which creaked a bit as she sat down.

"Well," Alberta said, "ain't this something? I always got more than enough trouble from ONE Michael. Now there are two of you." She laughed.

Martin and Michael laughed in return. Then Martin said, "Is Dad...I mean, Mr. King...away at work? Will he be home for supper? I had hoped to meet him too."

Alberta's face clouded. "I'm sorry, son, but he's no longer with us. He was killed during the Austrian War back in 1933, when Michael was only four years old."

"You mean he was in the Confederate Army?," Martin asked, amazed.

"Yes indeed," she said proudly. She got up and retrieved a small wooden box from a nearby hutch. Coming over to the sofa, she sat down between Michael and Martin. She opened the box, and inside, Martin saw several odd-looking military medals. Alberta picked one out of the box and held it up.

"This is your...I mean, Michael's...father's Medal of Valor. He sacrificed his life single-handedly destroying a German battlewagon..."

"Battlewagon?," Martin asked. "What's that?"

Michael laughed. "They call them TANKS where he comes from, Mama," he said.

"Really? Now ain't that a silly name?," Alberta exclaimed, shaking her head. Then she continued. "As I was saying, he singlehandedly destroyed a German...TANK...which was about to over-run his platoon's rifle pits. He climbed up on top of it and managed to get the turret hatch open. Then he threw a grenade inside before he was shot by a German soldier." A tear ran down her eye as she remembered it. "We are very proud that he wore the Gray."

Alberta picked up another medal. "Michael's Grand-daddy, Jim King, fought in the Great War. This is his Great War Service Medal." She put that one down and picked up another. "And Michael's Great Grand-daddy, Jim Long, served in the 63rd Virginia Infantry, fighting with Marse Robert during the War of Secession in 1864. This is one of his United Confederate Veterans reunion medals."

Martin blinked when he heard that. It was all so much to take in. "But, but," he stammered, "why would he fight for the Confederacy? The Confederates were fighting to keep him a slave."

Michael turned to him. "Martin, it’s not as simple as that," he said. "His master offered him his freedom if he would go and fight the Yankees. The Confederate government promised that his whole family would be freed after the war if he served loyally." His face assumed a stern cast. "And he had personal reasons. Yankee soldiers came through the plantation where he lived and raped some of the negro women there, including his sister."

Alberta put the medal back into its case, and closed it up as she dispelled the thought of that brutality from her mind. "Besides," she said, "the South has always been our home, good or bad. When your home is invaded, you fight back." She stood up. "Well, I'd best go see about supper," she said. "You two boys can talk, I'll have supper ready before you know it."

Martin watched her go. Then, turning to Michael, he asked, "Were any of my other ancestors...or yours, I should say...Confederate soldiers during the Civil War...I mean, the War of Secession?"

"Yes," Michael replied. "Several of them. And later," Michael continued, "serving in the Confederate army became a way for black men to lift themselves out of the peonage which was imposed by most of the States after the end of slavery."

"Peonage?," Martin asked.

"After the end of slavery," Michael said, "the white folk were concerned that letting a bunch of uneducated black folk loose, without jobs or land to their name, could cause problems. So Judah P. Benjamin suggested they be placed in a state of peonage...bound to temporarily work, for wages, on the plantations where they had been slaves, until such time as they were educated and made ready to support themselves away from the plantations. Black men who joined the army were relieved from it. The Confederate Army made sure the men were educated during their term of enlistment, and after their terms of enlistment had expired, they were allowed to take their families out as well." He frowned. "Of course, in many places the system was abused, and negroes in peonage were often no better than slaves. Heck, South Carolina, Alabama, and Mississippi didn't release their negro population from peonage until the 1920s. But in most of the Confederacy, it worked as a way for freedmen to transition from slavery into life as an ordinary citizen."

"How are you...the negro population, I should say...treated nowadays?," Martin asked.

Michael said, "We have it pretty good, compared to what I hear tell was going on in the South which you knew. We have the right to vote and to hold political office. Nobody tries to interfere with that. We even had a negro Vice President at one point, and our Secretary of State today is a negro. There are many negro Congressmen and Senators as well."

"Yes," Martin said. "I've heard about that. But how are you TREATED? Are you allowed to eat at the same restaurants as a white man? To attend the same schools? To shop in the same stores? To attend the same churches?"

Michael nodded. "Yes. We never had the segregation down here that we've heard went on in the South you knew." He smiled wryly. "That doesn't mean we are all equal in every way down here," he said. "There are still some lines a negro had best not cross. The rules are mostly unwritten, but that doesn't mean they don't exist. The white folk don't cotton to having negroes nosing around their white women, and any black man who does that will find himself in a whole lot of trouble. And we tend to live in our own neighborhoods...there's no law which says we can't live in a white neighborhood, but we know we wouldn't be welcomed there with open arms, so we don't. Things like that." He looked quizzically at Martin. "Is it true what I hear about the lynchings that went on in your world?"

Now it was Martin's turn to frown. "I'm afraid so. The South in my world was not a good place to be if you are a black man. It was my home, and I loved it dearly. But it did not love us."

Just at that moment, Alberta called from the kitchen, "Supper's ready!"

Michael looked at Martin and then stood up. "You can tell us about it over supper. Let's eat."

He offered his hand, and Martin took it. Over a delicious supper of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, okra and cornbread...Mama couldn't have fixed a finer supper, Martin thought as he shoveled in the food...Martin did indeed tell them about his world, and together, they talked long into the night. Alberta was nice enough to offer him the bed in the guest room, rather than have him go back to his hotel. As he lay in bed in the dark room, he thought back on the day just past.

Alberta had been kind enough to invite him to spend the weekend with the family. He had decided to accept the invitation. Although many things were different here, still, these people were very much like the family he had lost on September 1, when the world changed. But he knew he could not stay here. Seeing how much negroes had achieved within the Confederacy inspired him to take on the discrimination still rampant in the North, where Jim Crow...while not as uniformly nor as brutally enforced as in the South of his world...was alive and well.

He yawned. "I have a dream," he muttered sleepily, then fell asleep.

[1] The hotel is located where Grant Park is located in OTL.

SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 19 SEPTEMBER 1950

A large crowd had gathered in Lincoln Park, in the city of Springfield, Illinois, to hear a speech by Senator Joseph McCarthy. McCarthy was in the midst of a barnstorming campaign of speeches in support of anti-communist Republicans in fifteen states, and was here campaigning on behalf of Republican Senate candidate Everett Dirksen, who was trying to unseat the incumbent, Democratic Senator Scot W. Lucas. At the moment, Dirksen was speaking.

"And so, my fellow citizens, the choice is clear. The Democratic Party has dominated political discourse in this country since 1932. And look where it's gotten us, and the world! Half of Europe is locked up tight behind the Iron Curtain, the people there the slaves of brutal Communist dictatorships! China, too, has been lost to the Reds! And now, brazen Communist aggression in Korea! If you've had enough...and I know I have...Vote Republican!"

The crowd cheered enthusiastically. Dirksen smiled, then gestured to Senator McCarthy, who was seated on the rostrum behind him.

"And now, the man you've all been waiting to hear, the Tail-Gunner himself, Senator Joseph McCarthy!"

The crowd went wild, people cheering themselves hoarse and clapping so hard they almost bruised their own palms. McCarthy stood up, and waving to the crowd in acknowledgement, strode confidently up to the podium. Dirksen surrendered his place, and took one of the empty seats atop the rostrum. McCarthy looked out over the crowd, and smiled to see the television cameras, positioned strategically to record the event. He continued waving for a moment or two more, then stood, silently, to wait for the cheers and applause to subside. Gradually, they did, and McCarthy began to speak.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Fellow Citizens," he began, "I cannot tell you how much it pleases me to be here, in the hometown of our greatest President, Abraham Lincoln!" Once again, the crowd went wild, and McCarthy waited for them to subside somewhat before continuing.

Pointing to Oak Ridge Cemetery, which lay next to Lincoln Park, he said, "But truly, my friends, today he must be turning over in his grave, over yonder, or he would be, if he knew the state of the world as it exists today. Today we are engaged in a final, all-out battle between communistic atheism and Christianity. The modern champions of communism have selected this as the time. And, ladies and gentlemen, the chips are down -- they are truly down.

Lest there be any doubt that the time has been chosen, let us go directly to the leader of communism today -- Joseph Stalin. Here is what he said -- not back in 1928, not before the war, not during the war -- but two years after the last war was ended: 'To think that the communist revolution can be carried out peacefully, within the framework of a Christian democracy, means one has either gone out of one's mind and lost all normal understanding, or has grossly and openly repudiated the communist revolution.'

And this is what was said by Lenin in 1919, which was also quoted with approval by Stalin in 1947: 'We are living,' said Lenin, 'not merely in a state but in a system of states, and the existence of the Soviet Republic side by side with Christian states for a long time is unthinkable. One or the other must triumph in the end. And before that end supervenes, a series of frightful collisions between the Soviet Republic and the bourgeois states will be inevitable.'

Ladies and gentlemen, can there be anyone here today who is so blind as to say that the war is not on? Can there be anyone who fails to realize that the communist world has said, 'The time is now' -- that this is the time for the showdown between the democratic Christian world and the communist atheistic world? Unless we face this fact, we shall pay the price that must be paid by those who wait too long.

As one of our outstanding historical figures once said, 'When a great democracy is destroyed, it will not be because of enemies from without but rather because of enemies from within." The truth of this statement has become terrifyingly clear as we see this country each day losing on every front.

Yet there are those who will not see what is right in front of their faces. There are those who refuse to believe what their own senses tell them must be the truth. Some of them are simple fools. And some of them are simply traitors...traitors to this great land and the principles for which it stands...traitors who have sold their souls to the false god of Communism!" Once again, the crowd roared with rapturous approval.

"Into which category Senator Scot W. Lucas falls, I know not," McCarthy shouted to be heard over the din of the crowd. "Perhaps he is a fool. Perhaps he is a traitor! But whatever he is, he is not worthy to hold a seat in the United States Senate!"

As McCarthy spoke, a non-descript little man, with graying black hair and bushy eyebrows, wearing a gray trench coat over his dark suit and a homberg hat on his head, gradually pushed his way through the crowd, edging closer and closer to the rostrum. Finally, he emerged into the front row of spectators, and as the crowd roared once again, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his trench coat, where he felt the cold metal of the automatic pistol he carried. He knew the pistol...a Confederate-made Browning Model 1921 automatic pistol...had a hair trigger, and he would be able to empty the magazine quickly, and hopefully completely, before those around him could respond. He took a deep breath as he steeled himself, then quickly withdrew the weapon, aimed it at McCarthy, and opened fire.

POP POP POP POP POP...the noise as the gun discharged was almost lost among the din of the crowd as he quickly squeezed off all twelve rounds in the magazine. McCarthy gasped with shock and surprise, then silently slumped to the ground. A pool of blood began forming itself beneath his body. Everett Dirksen...who had, himself, been wounded in the arm by the fusillade, and others on the rostrum quickly rushed to aid the stricken Senator, but it was too late."Tail-Gunner Joe" McCarthy was dead, a bullet having found his heart.

People, both in the crowd and on the rostrum, screamed in horror and recoiled from the assassin. Then, several men leapt forward to grab him, ripping the gun from his grasp and wrestling him to the ground. Two of the men began beating the assassin with their fists. Strangely, he didn't seem to resist. Two policemen, who had been assigned to perform crowd control for the event, rushed forward, pulling the men away. But the assassin lay motionless on the ground.

One of the policemen knelt beside him, shaking him. "Get up, buddy," the policeman said. But there was no response. The officer turned the assassin over onto his back, and, bending down to listen for any breath, caught the faint scent of almonds from the assassins mouth, which hung open as his eyes stared into space, seeing nothing. Hearing no breath, he put his ear to the man's chest. Astonished, he looked up at his partner and said, "He's dead!"

The other policemen now knelt down and rifled through the man's pockets. "No identification," the officer said, looking at his partner. Then, finding another pocket, he said, "Wait a second...what's this?" He pulled out a piece of folded paper. Opening it up, he found it was a newspaper clipping describing the failed attempt to blow up the Confederate Capitol Building in Washington, C.D. Written across it was "Yankee Bastards. Fuck McCarthy!" He showed it to his partner, who had in the meantime recovered the fallen assassin's weapon. "It's a goddamned Reb!," he said. "I think you're right," his partner said, nodding and holding up the unfamiliar looking hand-gun. Looking at some markings on the side of it, he read, "Confederate States Repeating Arms Co., Atlanta, Georgia."

As the officer was reading those words, Colonel Rudolf Abel sat watching the live television coverage of the event in his flat in Brooklyn, New York. Abel, whose real name was Vilyam Genrikhovich Fischer, was a small man of 47 years, with a head of black hair gone prematurely bald, a hawklike face and cunning black eyes. Abel was one of the highest ranking intelligence agents which the Soviet Union had secretly inserted into the United States, and one of the most successful. He was, of course, pleased that this mission, too, had been a success. Nevertheless, as he watched the drama unfold on his television screen, he shuddered and shook his head, although the room was quite warm. He could not help feeling sick when he thought about the poor sod who had been dragooned by Abel's superiors, back in Moscow, to perform this mission. For Abel knew the man who had assassinated McCarthy was not, in fact, a Confederate at all, but simply a man who had fallen afoul of Joe Stalin.

Sergei Kornilov had been sent to a Gulag in Siberia over ten years before. Somehow he had survived all that time, and his term of imprisonment was nearly over. He had been looking forward to seeing his family again, especially his son, Ivan and daughter, Olga, who had both been babies when he had been sent away. But then, one night, the NKVD guards hustled him out of his barracks and put him on a plane for Moscow. He had been taken to the office of NKVD Chief Lavrentiy Beria, who had informed him that his beloved wife, Natalya, and his two children had been arrested and confined in Lubyanka Prison. Beria had then given him a choice...carry out this mission on behalf of the State, in which case his family would be released and well-cared for, or refuse, in which case he would go back to the Gulag for the rest of his life, AFTER witnessing his wife and children receive bullets in their brainpans. Kornilov had chosen the former, of course.

After he had been smuggled into the United States via the Canadian border, Kornilov had been picked up by Abel, who had provided him with a suit of clothing purchased in a Confederate shop, a Confederate pistol, and a clipping from the Washington Guardian [1] describing the "failed" attempt to blow up the Confederate Capitol. He had been given his instructions, and a cyanide capsule which he was to place in his mouth and bite down on immediately after completing his assignment. "If you allow yourself to be captured," Beria had told him before he left for America, "your family will not leave Lubyanka alive. This I promise you!"

Abel shook his head again. Kornilov had carried out his mission...all of it. Even now, he was watching them carry the unfortunate man's body away on television. He hoped that Beria would keep his word and release Kornilov's family. He shuddered again. He knew that was a highly questionable assumption. Lavrentiy Beria always acted in what he regarded as the best interest of the State and of the Communist Party...which meant, as far as he was concerned, what was in his own best interest, and in that of his master, Comrade Stalin. And if that meant an innocent woman and her two children had to disappear, Abel knew they would disappear.

Abel sighed. He knew, in his heart, that the victory of Communism would, in the end, mean a better world for everyone. Capitalism had to be defeated, and many sacrifices would be required before that happened. But still, it was sad when innocents had to suffer for the greater good.

"Ah well," he said softly. "Such is life." All that was really important was the success of the mission. And, once again, Rudolph Abel had succeeded, and the cause of the Motherland had been advanced. He got up and turned the television off, put on his overcoat, and stepped out for dinner. A pastrami sandwich from Katz's would do much to improve his mood, he knew. His mouth watered when he thought of the spicy, smoky meat. He could almost taste it, even now, as he walked down the stairs of his apartment building. He smiled sardonically. It might even remove the bitter taste left in his mouth by what he had just done. At least he hoped it would. "Such is life," he said again, softly to himself. "Such is life."

WASHINGTON, C.D., CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA, 20 SEPTEMBER 1950

On the morning of September 20, 1950, Wade Hampton VI sat patiently in a private anteroom outside the Oval Office, waiting to see the President. Fifty years old, the resemblance to his great grandfather, the famous cavalry leader of the War of Secession, General Wade Hampton III, was striking. Like his renowned ancestor, Hampton stood over six feet tall, barrel-chested and with the physique of an athlete. The resemblance was only further reinforced by the full, luxuriant beard which he chose to wear, of dark brown hair just beginning to be streaked with gray, which itself looked like it belonged in the Nineteenth century rather than in the middle of the Twentieth.

That Hampton was sitting in the private anteroom, rather than the public one used by the President's usual guests, reflected the nature of the work which Hampton did. Indeed, the White House sat across Pennsylvania Avenue (which had never been renamed, despite the fact that it honored a Northern State) from the Confederate Intelligence Agency Building, and Hampton had entered the White House through a tunnel which ran underneath the street and connected that building with this anteroom. The fewer people who saw the comings and goings of the Confederacy's Chief Spy...of course, Hampton himself wouldn't have referred to himself that way, however accurate it might have been...the better.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door to the anteroom finally opened, and Henry Fitzhugh, the President's Chief of Staff, beckoned for him to follow.

"The President will see you now, General Hampton," Fitzhugh said.

Hampton smiled and rose. "Thank you, Henry." He followed as ordered, and soon found himself in the Oval Office itself. As he entered, President Richard Russell rose to greet him.

"Wade!," he said, stepping forward and offering his hand. "Come in! Come in!" Gesturing toward a chair in front of the large mahogany desk, he said, "Please, have a seat! I'm sorry that took so long...I was meeting with Senator Talmadge." He smiled, knowingly. Senator Talmadge's reputation as a windbag who loved the sound of his own voice was well known.

Hampton shook Russell's hand, smiling in return, then took the offered seat. "Thank you, Mr. President," he said as he sat down.

Russell returned to his own seat behind the large, heavy desk. Placing his hands on the desk in front of him, he leaned forward and looked intently at Hampton.

"Wade, the situation with the Yankees is getting pretty heated," Russell said. "You've no doubt heard the news about the assassination of Senator McCarthy. The Yankees say it appears that one of our citizens pulled the trigger. There are some muckrakers in the Yankee press who speculate that the killer was a Confederate agent."

"Yes, I've heard that, Mr. President," Hampton replied, nodding.

"Please tell me that's not true, General Hampton?," Russell said, almost pleading.

Hampton shook his head. "No, Mr. President," he said. "It is not. I can assure you of that with one hundred percent certainty."

Russell sat back in his chair a bit and looked relieved. "Thank God for small favors...or in this case, for big ones," he said. Looking into Hampton's eyes, he asked, "So what can you tell me?"

Hampton cleared his throat, before speaking. "Mr. President, I can't tell you anything beyond that for certain. But I think we've been the victims of a ruse."

"A ruse?," Russell asked, mystified. "What do you mean by that, General?"

"Mr. President," Hampton continued, "I can't prove anything yet, but I am of the opinion that we...the Confederacy and the Yankees...are being manipulated by an outside power, intent of creating conflict, and even war, between us."

"Go on," the President said. "What evidence, if any, do you have?"

"Not so much evidence at this time, but a lot of good old fashioned instinct and intuition," Hampton said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Consider...we find and disarm a bomb outside our Capitol Building with papers inside which implicate that son-of-a-bitch McCarthy. Then, three days later, McCarthy ends up dead, supposedly killed by a Confederate citizen."

"Supposedly?," Russell asked.

"Well," Hampton said, "all we have right now is that the Yankees think he was a Confederate citizen, based on certain items which were found on his person."

"All right," Russell said. "I'm with you. Please continue."

"The assassin had a newspaper clipping in his pocket about the attempted Capitol bombing," Hampton said. "Yet we did not release the information that McCarthy had been implicated. It appeared in none of our newspapers or broadcasts."

"Isn't it possible that this person might have simply jumped to the conclusion that McCarthy or his supporters were behind the bombing?," Russell asked. "After all, his anti-Confederate tirades were common knowledge."

"Yes, that is possible," Hampton said. "As I said, it's more a hunch I have, than anything solid."

"Your hunches usually prove to be prophetic," Russell said, frowning. "And if that proves to be the case here..."

"Yes, Mr. President," Hampton said, nodding and smiling wanly. "Needless to say, it would complicate things a mite." Russell guffawed at the understatement. Undeterred, Hampton continued.

"Mr. President, some things just don't add up about the Capitol bombing, either," he said. "I've had our best demolition experts examine the bomb which was parked next to the Capitol Building. If it had exploded, it would have been a very powerful and destructive device. But my experts are of the opinion that, the way it was rigged, there was no way it could have exploded."

"So we're dealing with a group of incompetent terrorists, then," Russell replied.

"I don't think so," Hampton said, shaking his head.

"I don't understand," Russell said, a puzzled look on his face.

"Mr. President," Hampton said, "I believe the device was very cleverly done, to look dangerous while not actually being dangerous."

"But what about the papers found which implicated Senator McCarthy and his supporters?," Russell asked. "And the presence of the U.S. Army-issue detonators?"

"The detonators appear to be real," Hampton said. "They could have been stolen, though. The serial numbers were removed to prevent them from being easily traced. As for the legitimacy of the papers, so far, our tests have been inconclusive. My own opinion is that they are forgeries."

"And on what do you base that opinion?," Russell asked.

"Again, at this point, it's just a hunch," Hampton replied. "Something just doesn't smell right about this whole situation. The Yankees have extended recognition to us. We have joined their anti-communist alliance. Even Senator McCarthy's public statements had become less...abrasive...since then. Why would he, or his supporters, want to blow up the Capitol Building? What do they have to gain by it?"

Russell sat silently, looking into space as he mulled that one over. Hampton did have a point. As much as McCarthy annoyed him, Russell did have to admit that his statements since the McKellar Administration had extended recognition...and the Confederacy had agreed to send troops to fight he communists in Korea...had become much less adversarial, though by no means friendly, toward the Confederacy. He suddenly looked back at Hampton.

"Well, if not the Yankees..." he began.

"Who stands to benefit most if the Confederate States and the United States become enemies?," Hampton asked.

Russell nodded, then sighed. "The Communists," he said. "But can you prove it?"

Hampton shook his head. "Not yet. Whoever planned this operation was good. REAL good. But we'll keep digging."

"Yes, do that," Russell said. He rose, offering his hand again. "Thank you, General," he said. "I know I can count on you." Hampton took his hand, and replied, "Thank you, Mr. President." Fitzhugh, who had been standing behind the President, escorted Hampton back to the anteroom. He returned shortly.

"Mr. President," he said, "if it was the communists, what are we going to do about it? The next time, it could just as well be a real bomb."

"I'm not quite sure yet, Henry," Russell said. "I reckon I'll have to think on that, and right hard."

"Yes, Sir," Fitzhugh said.

Russell got up. "Henry," he said, "Cancel the rest of my meetings for today. If an emergency comes up, I'll be in the study."

"Yes, Sir!," Fitzhugh said, rising from his own seat and following the President out of the Oval Office. As President Russell headed up the stairs to the second floor of the White House, Fitzhugh did not follow, heading instead for his own office.

Once in the study, Russell sat down in his favorite chair and turned on the television. As it happened, the set was tuned to WPTZ in Philadelphia, and the CBS networks afternoon news program, John Daly with the News, was just coming on. Daly was a handsome man with a friendly face who Russell recognized as the host of the Yankee game show, What's My Line. Russell smiled at that. News in the Confederacy carried a certain gravitas which seemed lacking in some of the Yankee broadcasts he had seen. He tried to imagine Carver Andrews hosting a game show. The image simply wouldn't form in his mind. Shaking his head, he re-focused his attention of the broadcast.

"Preliminary reports that the assassin of Senator Joseph McCarthy, who was shot and killed yesterday while giving a speech in Springfield, Illinois, was a Confederate citizen," Daly said, "have not yet been confirmed by the Springfield Police Department, which is still investigating the matter. President McKellar, in a news conference held earlier today, has condemned speculation that the assassin might have been a Confederate agent. Here's some of that video now." The picture briefly faded, then a recording of McKellar's comments was played.

McKellar's face looked haggard as he called on one of the reporters crowded into the conference room in the Empire State Building where the news conference was being held.

"Yes, Mr. Hollenbeck?," McKellar said.

Don Hollenbeck, a reporter for CBS and its New York station, WCBS, a tall, lanky man with an unruly shock of dark hair who wore thick, horn-rim glasses, smiled.

"Thank you, Mr. President. Can you comment on the rumors that the assassin of Senator McCarthy might have been a Confederate agent? After all, Senator McCarthy's views regarding the Confederacy were well known."

McKellar drew himself up and took a deep breath before responding. "Mr. Hollenbeck, those rumors are just that, rumors. We have absolutely no evidence to support that. At this early stage, it is irresponsible in the extreme to throw around accusations like that, accusations which have no basis in anything we know at the present time. I cannot say that strongly enough. There are many who still have not accepted the fact that we have recognized the independence of the Confederacy, and welcomed our neighbors to the South into the family of nations. Those who seek to promote distrust and discord between our two American Republics by passing around these unfounded rumors are to be condemned, in no uncertain terms. If it does, at a later time, turn out that there was involvement by the Confederate government in the Senator's murder, that, of course, will be a different kettle of fish and we will of course respond appropriately. But once again, we have no evidence, whatsoever, of any such involvement at this time."

"So you are not ruling out the possibility of involvement by the Confederate government, then?," Hollenbeck pressed.

"Nothing is being ruled out at this time. The investigation is still ongoing," the President replied. Then quickly, he pointed to another reporter. "Next question!"

The screen faded again, then John Daly returned to the screen. "In related news," Daly said, "Confederate President Richard Russell has condemned the assassination of Senator McCarthy, calling it a 'tragic affair.' He has offered the full cooperation of the Confederacy with the investigation into the crime."

Russell nodded at that. He had indeed done these things, and he fully intended to cooperate fully with the investigation...especially now that General Hampton had assured him that the killer was NOT a Confederate agent. Getting up, he turned the television off, then sat back down to think.

If the assassin was not a Confederate agent, then who was he? Was he just a lunatic? Was he some anonymous Confederate citizen, outraged by what he believed to be Senator McCarthy’s complicity in the failed Capitol Bombing plot? Was he, as General Hampton apparently suspected, a Communist agent? But if so, would he have committed suicide upon completing his murderous act? He knew the agents who worked for the Confederate Intelligence Agency and other Confederate intelligence forces were dedicated, courageous men and women, but he had a hard time imagining one of them making what was essentially a suicide attack like the one this person had evidently carried out. What kind of fanatic does a thing like that?, Russell wondered to himself.

Russell shook his head. There were just too many possibilities, and not enough firm evidence right now even to speculate. He turned the TV back on. Video of McCarthy supporters outside the Confederate Embassy in New York, carrying picket signs accusing the Confederacy of complicity in the Senator's death, was on the screen. I hope General Hampton comes up with something soon, he thought to himself. Because if he doesn't, things could get a lot more than a MITE complicated.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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